Chapter Eighteen

The following week was filled with rehearsals for Clara. She was all of twenty minutes of the concert, for only a few dates, and she couldn’t believe how much time she’d already put into practicing everything.

She wasn’t sure it was in her to be a headliner.

Things at home had been calm, and for that she was thankful. After her father’s impromptu bachelor party for Warner, she’d noticed a change in her husband. It was almost as if he had new purpose in his life.

There were a few days a week he stayed purposely away from home since the cameras were following him for his show. She didn’t mind that. Her tour schedule didn’t need to affect his TV schedule, or what they put on TV for that matter.

Clara sat in the back of the room where the other small opening act was rehearsing. She liked being around like minded people and she knew Warner wouldn’t be home until long after ten o’clock, so she saw no reason not to sit around and collaborate with the others she’d be touring with.

Trent Post, the guitarist for the other group, which called themselves The Broke Tourists, walked toward her, his guitar in his hand being held by the neck.

“What do you think so far?”

Clara looked up at him. “You guys sound great.”

Trent sat down on the folding chair next to her. “No. I mean about doing the tour and all. Savannah is a hard ass, isn’t she?”

Clara smiled as she balanced her guitar on her knee. “A tour this big, you’d have a lot at stake.”

“I guess it’ll be our turn someday. I mean that’s the reason we’re doing this, right? So that the ticket stubs have our names on them.”

“Something like that.” She went back to tuning her guitar.

Trent looked around the room and Clara assumed he had more to say to her. She looked back up and caught his eye.

“So someone said you just got married?”

Clara nodded. “I sure did.”

“Yeah, me too. She’s a little freaked out about me being on the road so much. What about your husband?”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything about it. He’s excited for me. After all, I’m singing his songs.”

“Right. He wrote all of those?”

“Yep.”

“Talented S.O.B.”

That made Clara laugh. “He sure is.”

“He’s that step-son of that gal on that reality TV show right? Nashville Ex-wives?”

Clara felt her throat go dry. “Yes, that’s him.”

Trent leaned in closer to Clara. “She’s a bitch. I don’t know how he deals with that.”

“He doesn’t,” she said softly back. “She does it for publicity. She has nothing to do with him.”

Trent nodded. “I’m surprised she let you on the tour since Savannah is signed under her label.”

“I figure she’s waiting for me to make a mistake.” Clara set her guitar up on its end. “I won’t be making any mistakes.”

Trent smiled. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun on the tour. I’m glad you’re on it.”

“So am I.”

When Clara pulled into the driveway she had only one thing on her mind—sleep. She hopped out of the Jeep and headed to the door when Warner’s truck sped up the street. He stopped quickly in front of the house, jammed the truck into park, and jumped out.

“Are you okay?” Clara was headed toward him, but he was barreling at her as quickly as possible.

It was dark in the yard but that didn’t hide the fact that his lip was bleeding, his eye was black, and his shirt was ripped.

“Warner, what happened to you? Oh, God, are you alright?” She dropped her bag and guitar case right where she stood and hurried to him.

She reached for his face but he pushed her hands away. “Don’t touch it.”

“Warner, that needs stitches.”

“Like hell it does. It needs an icepack.”

He moved around her and up the front steps.

Clara didn’t even reach for her belongings. She followed him right into the house. “Who did that to you?”

“Not important.”

“Like hell it’s not.” She followed him into the kitchen as he pulled a towel out of the drawer and walked to the freezer.

Clara moved in and took the towel from his hand and filled it with ice. “Sweetheart, what’s going on? Why did someone do this to you?”

“Why? Because I’m a joke, Clara. I’m one big joke in this town.”

“That’s crap and you know it.”

“Really? Tell that to those guys on my show. Stupid Patty mentions my name on her show last night, which by the way was taped weeks ago because there is footage of me leaving her house. I haven’t been there since before we were married.” He winced when she pressed the towel to his cheek. “She made her usual snide comments about me, but they are bent out of shape thinking I’m taking over the show. I’m getting double the air time thanks to that bitch.”

“Warner, that’s not how this is. We have to get you off the show.”

“That’s not going to happen. Just like pulling you off that tour isn’t going to happen.”

She felt the pang of losing her opportunity when he said that. Oh, she wished it wasn’t like this. Warner should be with her on the road and not home doing this stupid TV show. But she kept in mind that by spring this would all be over.

Her tour dates would be over and his filming schedule would be done. At some point they could settle into being Mr. and Mrs. Wright.

Another car pulled up in the front and the driver parked and hurried out of the car. Again she could tell it was Christian by the sound.

The front door opened and Christian and Victoria flew into the room.

“What’s wrong? Why does Warner’s truck have a broken back window and all your stuff is outside on the ground?” Christian looked from her to Warner. “Christ! Clara, what did you do?”

“Me?”

She saw Warner’s mouth lift into a smile and then he winced from the pain.

“I didn’t do this. And what do you mean the back window?” She looked at her husband.

“I might have a cracked rib too. That was a baseball bat that hit the window first.”

“Warner!”

Christian moved in closer to him. “You need to go to the hospital.”